The Day Nancy Watered the Garden

Nancy was nothing much to look at. She was short and dumpy with freckles and glasses, and cascades of curly auburn hair tumbling down to her shoulders. She always wore her skirt about four inches above the knee, even though she plainly didn’t have the legs for it; and her frumpy blouses and over–tailored jackets did absolutely nothing for her figure. But what she lacked in looks, she more than made up for in personality. She was bubbly, vivacious and fun– and about three or four years older than me.
Now, don’t get me wrong: I have nothing against older women, and if the age gap had been the only thing that stood in the way of my successfully wooing her then I’d have been after her like a shot. After all, personality counts for more than looks, right? The thing is, though, there was something else as well. And that something else was a big problem. It was that she was secretary to the managing partner of the commercial property department of the law firm where I was articled. My second seat in articles was in the commercial property department; and it just wasn’t the done thing for an articled clerk to make a pass at the departmental manager’s secretary. Not the done thing at all. So if anybody was going to make the first move– it would have to be her; and somehow I got the impression that she hadn’t even noticed me, insignificant as I was. If anyone had suggested that she might have the hots for me, I’d have laughed in their face. Until, that is, the completion party which our client threw when we finally wrapped up the Richmond deal.
It was a big affair at our client’s offices, starting at three in the afternoon and continuing for as long as people were still able to stand and drink (or, in some cases, as long as they were still able to drink despite the fact that they had long since fallen down). All the client’s directors were there, and all their property management people; they invited the entire legal team (including secretaries and unqualified assistants, general dogsbodies: the lot) as well as the architects, surveyors, financiers, tax consultants, management accountants, quantity surveyors, public relations people, planning consultants and one or two others who nobody seemed to know, or recall ever having dealt with, or even to know what their connection with the Richmond deal actually was. They laid on a splendid buffet, the champagne flowed freely throughout the afternoon and on into the evening, and everyone had a wonderful time.
After a while, people tended to gravitate into little clumps all of the same age group; and I found myself in a little group of six youngsters along with Nancy, Carol, who was the other articled clerk in our commercial property department, a management trainee from the client company called John, a trainee quantity surveyor called Adrian, and a fearfully intelligent young lady called Antonia who did something called Risk Profile analysis at the bank which had put together the finance package for the whole deal. It was a little after five o’clock, we’d all been drinking steadily for the last two hours, and I was beginning to get the feeling that Nancy was paying an awful lot of attention to me; far more than she was to any of the others. I must admit that I was paying a fair bit of attention to her, too – but that was almost entirely due to the fact that she was standing a little awkwardly with one leg crossed tightly across the other, and shifting her weight occasionally from foot to foot. I guessed she’d probably be excusing herself to go to the toilet at any moment, but I was fascinated to see how desperate she was going to allow herself to become before she did so. Occasionally, I even wondered whether with all that champagne she’d been drinking she might actually get it wrong and wait that little bit too long. But that hardly seemed likely, I told myself.
She had just started glancing around the room, and my guess was that she’d got as desperate as she was going to allow herself to become and was now trying to suss out where the toilets actually were before making her excuses, when John suddenly said “Hey you guys, do you fancy coming up to see the roof garden? The directors spent a fortune putting it in and it hardly ever gets used. It’d be a shame to pass up the opportunity, eh?” Carol, Adrian and Antonia all nodded enthusiastically at this suggestion. Nancy looked hesitant. I thought about jollying her along, but that would have offended my personal code of ethics. Enjoy watching somebody who’s been daft enough to get themselves into a desperate predicament, by all means. But don’t do anything to make their predicament any worse than it already is. Those are my rules, and I have always tried to abide by them.
“How about you two?” asked Carol, as John turned and led the way towards the lifts. “Are you coming?”
Nancy still looked hesitant, and I guessed she was trying to figure out whether she could safely come with us despite needing a pee, or whether she ought to go to the toilet first. Well, that was her call.
“Sure,” I said to Carol. “I’m coming.”
Carol turned from me to Nancy and raised an eyebrow enquiringly. Nancy still looked undecided. She looked from me to Carol and back to me again. Then she looked wistfully over her shoulder.
“Okay,” she said at length. “You can count me in, too.”
So the six of us and four bottles of champagne took a lift to the top floor of the building, and then John led the way up a further staircase and out onto the flat roof.
“Wow!” exclaimed Nancy. “It’s incredible.”
The whole of the flat roof had been laid with Astroturf. A number of large tubs, each holding an impressive tree, radiated out in little avenues from a central fountain to the edges of the roof. Between the trees were more tubs containing a wonderfully varied array of bright and colourful flowers, and every so often there was a little statue, or a stone bench, or some other little feature to catch your eye and hold your attention for a moment or two. Carol and Adrian linked arms and wandered off in one direction with a bottle of champagne. John and Antonia quickly took hold of one another’s hands and headed off in another direction with a second bottle of fizz. Which left just Nancy, and me with a bottle a piece. Nancy sauntered casually down the avenue to the fountain, and sat down on a little stone bench close beside it. I instinctively followed and sat down beside her.
“Isn’t this wonderful,” she said, “being alone together at last?”
“Are we alone?” I asked. “What of the others?”
“I don’t think they’re up here on the roof any longer,” she said. “I think they went off in search of a little privacy.”
“Oh,” I said, popping the cork from my bottle of champagne and taking a slurp. I passed the bottle to Nancy.
“Thanks,” she said, and took a large glug herself. “Oh, I wish we could stay up here together all evening.”
“We can,” I said, “if that’s what you want.”
“Of course it’s what I want,” she said. “But be practical, dear.”
Dear? My pulse rate shot up about twenty beats. She’d called me “dear”. Did she have designs on me? Or was that just a figure of speech, meaning nothing more than a Cornish person addressing you as “my handsome”, or even “my lovely”?
“What’s to be practical about?” I asked. “We’ve got the garden; we’ve got the sky; we’ve got each other” (definitely the wine talking there: I’d already had a skinful and no mistake) “and we’ve got more champagne than we could possibly drink. So what’s the problem?”
“Think about it,” she said, and smiled enigmatically.
I was thinking about it, and I reckoned I knew what she meant. But I wasn’t going to be the one to suggest that we abandon the roof garden and go in search of a toilet. So I just sighed contentedly and listened to the gentle tinkling splash of the fountain, and wondered idly whether that was adding any to Nancy’s discomfort.
“Richard?” she said after a while.
“That’s me.”
“Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
She turned and straddled the bench. The hem of her skirt rode deliciously up her legs, exposing most of her thighs to view (although not, alas, her knickers). I mirrored the motion and we sat facing one another. She stared deep into my eyes, and then took another hurried swig of champagne. I raised my eyebrows, and she blushed slightly.
“Dutch courage,” she blurted. “Look, I don’t normally do things like this, you understand. And I probably wouldn’t even now if I hadn’t had quite so much to drink. But, well, you see, it’s sort of like this.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I, gosh, it’s so difficult actually to say it when we’re sitting here together like this. But you see,” she took a deep breath, closed her eyes tightly, and then stammered “I – I – I think I l–l–love you.”
She opened her eyes again. “There,” she beamed at me. “Now I’ve said it.”
She lifted the bottle back to her lips and took another long swig. When she had finished and lowered the bottle, I leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips. She coloured a fiery red, then seemed to regain her composure and started kissing me lovingly in return. As we were kissing I felt her hand on my chest, pushing me gently back; so I lay back along the bench and she followed me down, lying on top of me as we continued to kiss. Then, suddenly, she pulled away and sat there, straddling me with her gorgeously bare, fleshy legs. I was sure now that it must be possible to see her knickers if only I could get the right angle, but from where I lay her bunched–up skirt was obscuring my view. All I could see and admire, for the time being, was her well–built upper thighs. Ah well! You can’t have everything.
She unbuttoned my jacket and slid its arms, one by one, off over my hands. Then she began unbuttoning my shirt, starting at my navel and making her way slowly up to my collar. By the time she got there I had removed my tie, and my shirt now gaped open revealing my rather puny chest. She looked down at it and smiled again – that same, enigmatic smile that had played on her lips once before. Then she leaned forward and kissed me three or four times on my exposed nipples. It felt absolutely right – and deliciously warming in the chill evening air. I removed my cuff links and sat up a little while she slipped my shirt off and dropped it onto the Astroturf beside the bench. My jacket and tie soon joined it, as she began gently caressing my body. Her fingertips were soft and sensuous.
“Nancy,” I said, as she gently traced the line of my collarbone with her index finger, pausing tenderly at the lump where it had refused to mend properly after I fell off my bike when I was six.
“Mmm?”
“The evening air on my skin is deliciously cool and very erotic, you know.”
“Is it?”
“It is,” I said. “It seems a shame to keep it all to myself.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Don’t I?”
“No,” she said, and shivered slightly as I felt for the buttons of her blouse and began to undo them, working my way up from her navel as she had done to me. Her blouse soon joined my clothes on the Astroturf.
“That’s pretty,” I said, admiring the red bra, which she wore underneath. “Do you always wear a red bra?”
“No,” she said, leaning forward once more and kissing me tenderly on my eyes, nose, and finally lips.
“You should,” I said. “It makes you look really sexy, you know.”
“I don’t have enough red knickers,” she said.
“You what?”
“I always wear matching knickers and bra,” she explained, brushing her lips lightly over my cheeks as she did so. “I like to co–ordinate, you see. So I can only wear a red bra if I’m wearing red knickers.”
“And you’re wearing red knickers now, are you?”
“Of course.”
“Show me?”
She climbed off me and stood on the Astroturf beside the bench, looking down at me. Then, reaching silently behind her back, she unfastened her skirt and let it fall to the ground. I looked up in awe at her plump little body. She looked utterly ravishing, standing before me in nothing but her matching red cotton knickers and bra, and at that moment I wanted her in a way that I had never wanted a woman before.
She smiled down at me.
“Your turn,” she said, picking up the champagne bottle and taking another swig. I stood and kicked off my shoes before unfastening my trousers and letting them fall to the ground. She looked down at my underpants, my erection very evident, and smiled.
“There’s something I want you to do with that later,” she said.
“Why not now?” I asked.
“There’s not enough time to do it properly,” she said.
“We’ve got all the time in the world,” I protested.
“No we haven’t,” she said, pressing her knees together and leaning forward slightly from the waist. “It’s cold, I’m dying to go to the loo, and that blasted fountain keeps reminding me of the sound of wee hitting the toilet which isn’t helping me at all. So take a good look, have a quick grope if you want, but then I’m going to have to get dressed again and go in search of the ladies.”
“You can’t be all that desperate, surely?” I said.
“Richard,” she said very solemnly, looking me straight in the eye. “I’ve only been this desperate once before in my entire life and … well, I don’t really want to talk about it.”
I sat back down on the bench and, reaching up to her, pulled her to me. She came willingly enough but, instead of sitting on my lap as I had thought she would, she straddled me and pressed the front of her knickers hard against me erect penis. I pressed gently back against her, and she shuddered slightly. I put my arms round her warm, soft waist and ran my fingers slowly up her spine. When I came to her bra I unfastened the clasp, and she didn’t stop me from removing it and dropping it on the ground with the rest of our clothes. I kissed her lightly on her left breast.
“Why don’t you want to talk about it?”
“I just don’t,” she said coyly. “It’s embarrassing.”
“I see,” I said. “You were desperate to go to the toilet, but you don’t want to talk about what happened next because it’s embarrassing. I think I can probably guess what happened next, you know.”
“No you can’t,” she said. “It’s not what you think.”
“So tell me,” I said. Tell me what really happened.”
“No.”
“There’s no need to be so shy, Nancy,” I said. “Look, you said you’ve only ever been this desperate once before. It’s pretty obvious you ended up wetting yourself that time. Well, big deal. Most of us have wet ourselves once or twice in our lives. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“It is if you’re as old as I was,” she said.
“So how old were you?” I asked. “Ten? Eleven?”
“You’re not even warm.”
“Fifteen?”
“Slightly warm.”
“Eighteen?” She shook her head sadly. “Nineteen?” Another shake of her head. “Twenty?”
“Twenty one.” She blushed furiously.
“Twenty one?” I gasped. “So what happened?”
She stood up again, crossing her legs one across the other and bobbing up and down, then started pacing up and down in front of me.
“Like I said,” she began, “it’s not what you think. For my twenty–first birthday, my sister gave me a voucher that allowed me to do one of a number of activities. I could go hot air ballooning, or white water rafting, or drive a tank or a racing car, or any number of things.”
“Generous sister,” I said. “So what did you choose?”
“I chose to do a parachute drop.”
“Scary,” I said, in genuine awe.
“Exactly,” she said. “So scary, in fact, that the woman who jumped before me was so terrified she actually wet herself when she looked out of the aeroplane door and realised she actually had to jump out.”
“And you did as well?”
“No! I can cope with fear. I was fine.”
“But you did end up wetting your knickers?”
“Well,” she blushed again. “Yes, I did. But its not like you think it is.”
“So how was it?”
“Well, I was a little bit scared. So I closed my eyes for most of the time.”
“Was that a good idea?”
“It seemed it at the time.”
“I sense a but.”
“But when I opened my eyes again, I saw that I was about to land in a tree. There was no time to avoid it, and I fetched up dangling there in my parachute harness, twenty feet off the ground.”
I tried to picture Nancy dangling from a tree. I couldn’t help but laugh. It was so … well, funny.
“Don’t laugh!” she remonstrated. “It’s not funny.”
“It is from where I’m sitting,” I chortled.
“Stop laughing or I won’t tell you the rest of the story,” she chided.
“But you’ve not got to the bit where you wet your knickers yet!”
“Exactly.”
It was a struggle, believe me it was, but eventually I managed to stifle my laughter and look suitably po–faced. Nancy shifted her weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, and then continued.
“It took them three hours to get me down from that blooming tree. Three hours! They refused to call the fire brigade because it would put their insurance up if they did that, and they reckoned they could rescue me all by themselves.”
“And did they?”
“Eventually.”
“So they were right.”
“But I needed a wee. And do you know what it feels like to be dangling from a tree for three hours when you’re dying for a wee?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t believe I do.”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” she said, bobbing up and down again and pressing her knees tightly together. “It’s agony, that’s what it is. Absolute agony. For the first hour you tell yourself you can hold on; after all, you’ve done that often enough in the past– at school. Didn’t go to the loo at playtime. Regret it almost as soon as you sit down for the next class. But one way or another you always managed to hold it, didn’t you?”
“Actually,” I confessed, “I didn’t.”
“Oh come on,” she said. “You must have done that sometimes. Everyone forgets to go to the loo at some time or another.”
“No,” I corrected her. “I mean I didn’t always manage to hold it. I had wet pants at school from that cause more than once.”
“Oh, I see what you mean,” she said. “Well, I didn’t. I was always a dry knickers girl. Always managed to hold on, even though once or twice I thought I’d really made a mistake and that I wasn’t going to make it this time. But somehow or other I always did.”
As Nancy stood there bobbing and wriggling and squirming, wearing nothing but her red cotton knickers and telling me how she had always kept her knickers dry as a schoolgirl no matter what, I desperately tried to imagine it. I could picture her aged about seven– a little dumpy girl with pigtails and glasses, wearing a little grey gymslip or a pleated skirt or something like that. Sitting at her desk, wriggling and fidgeting as she was now, crossing her legs, putting her hand up her skirt maybe and clutching herself through her knickers. What colour? Not red, that’s for sure. White, more likely. No matter how desperate she got, she’d said, she’d always managed to stay dry. But my imagination rebelled at that. It was those times that she thought she’d got it wrong and left it too late that were causing me problems. My imagination just refused to let her off the hook. Insisted that if she thought she’d left it too late she’d probably thought so with good reason. The good reason being, of course, that she really had left it too late. Sorry, Nancy.
So my imagination always left little schoolgirl Nancy sitting sobbing in a puddle with wet little white knickers. Unlike big, grown–up secretary Nancy, who was standing in front of me now in just her red cotton knickers. They were still dry. But from the way she was wriggling and squirming and bobbing and shifting from foot to foot I didn’t reckon that could last long. And I certainly didn’t think she’d be able to hold on long enough now to put her clothes back on, climb down the stairs to the lift, take the lift down nine or ten floors to the party, find out where the toilets were and get to them with enough time remaining to find a cubicle, close and lock the door, lift her skirt, take down her knickers and sit on the toilet. It just wasn’t going to happen.
That is to say, me being I, I was hoping it wasn’t going to happen.
“The second hour was worse,” continued Nancy, pacing frantically to and fro with mincing little steps. “Nothing I’d had to do at school had ever prepared me for that. I just dangled there in frustration, watching them faffing about twenty feet below me trying to work out how to get me down. My bladder was bursting. I longed to go to the toilet. Kept thinking what the hell, why don’t I just wet myself and be done with it. But I still had the strength to fight that idea. I’m twenty–one, I kept telling myself. I’ve never wet my knickers in my entire life and I’m not going to do it now just because I’m dangling twenty foot up a tree and can’t get down.”
She paused and whimpered a little, bit her lip hard and clutched the front of her knickers with one hand. She tucked one foot behind the other, bobbed up and down with bent knees, then stood still for a moment, a look of intense concentration on her face. Then she relaxed slightly.
“Where was I?”
“Dangling in a tree,” I said. “You’ve been there for two hours and you’re still telling yourself that you can’t wet your knickers because you never have before.”
“Right. Well, I kept that up throughout the second hour. But by the third hour it was becoming obvious that, if they didn’t get me down soon, no amount of wishful thinking was going to keep me from wetting myself. I sort of became resigned to the fact that I was now just an accident waiting to happen. I persuaded myself that I’d managed to hold on long enough that nobody would blame me if I did end up wet. So I stopped struggling and just waited to see what would happen.”
“And what did happen?”
“What happened was that a lorry with a hydraulic lift suddenly appeared, just as I felt my bladder start to relax. One moment I was sure that my time had come and that in the next three seconds I would lose the right to boast that I had never wet my knickers in my life; I accepted that it was about to happen and was just waiting, slightly intrigued, to see what it actually felt like. And then the next moment, there was hope of salvation, and I was struggling to regain enough control to hold on for the few more minutes needed to get the hydraulic lift in place and return me safely to the ground.”
“And?”
“I found enough strength of purpose not to wet myself there and then. They got the lorry under me and the managing director of the parachute jump company himself came up to me in the hydraulic lift.”
“But found you wet?”
“No, he found me dry. But the lift couldn’t quite reach high enough. It reached its maximum lift a couple of feet short of me. So the managing director reached up to me and put one arm round my waist. He told me to wrap my legs around his body, and then punched the harness release button on my stomach.”
“Which released the harness?”
“Oh yes.”
“I sense another but.”
“But it’s not a good idea to punch my stomach when I’m that desperate for a wee. That did it! I just couldn’t hold on, and as the managing director lifted me down into the hydraulic lift cage, I just peed myself and all over him.”
Once again I burst out laughing. “Nancy,” I said, reaching out and pulling her towards me again. “You’re absolutely right, you know: it wasn’t what I thought at all.”
I put my arms round her neck and pulled her head down to mine. Kissed her lightly on the lips. She kissed me back, hungrily, but perhaps a little anxiously. I swung one leg over the bench and lay back. She straddled me once again; lay on top of me, pressing her crotch hard against mine. Her head came towards mine, as if to kiss me, and then stopped. It hovered there for a moment, an anxious look on her face.
“Richard,” she said, nervously.
“Yes?”
“I do hope you like this.” Her body felt strangely tense.
“Like what?” I asked.
And then I understood. I heard a faint hissing noise. And then, after a moment or two, I felt something warm trickling across the base of my penis and down past my balls. It gathered in a little pool on top of my pelvis, then cascaded down over my hips and formed a puddle on the cold stone bench. My bottom was getting wet now. Wet and cold, as Nancy’s pee cooled on contact with the stone. But fresh, warm torrents were flooding down onto the front of my pants all the time. Trickling down between my legs, and running up over my stomach and towards my chest, her pee tickling exquisitely as it cascaded over my waist and off to each side.
I thrust up urgently with my hips, and Nancy moaned, then shuddered, and clutched me tightly. She climaxed just as she finished peeing, and at much the same moment I felt an indescribable thrill pass through my body as my penis began to pump semen out into my pee–soaked underpants. Nancy lay on top of me a moment longer, then kissed me lightly on the lips and stood up. The whole of the front of her knickers was now a sodden, dark red colour; although I guessed that the back might be almost completely dry.
“Oops,” she said, looking down at the ground next to the bench. I followed her gaze. There was a huge puddle of her pee on the Astroturf. It had spread a long way. Far enough to engulf my pile of discarded clothes– although Nancy’s clothes, just that little bit farther away, were all still dry.
We dressed as best we could. My clothes were all sodden and clammy, especially my trousers.
“Oh dear,” giggled Nancy when she saw me in my pee–stained clothes. “You do look a sight. Do you want to come back to my flat and get yourself cleaned up a bit?”
“Thanks,” I said.
“What are you going to say if we bump into anyone from the firm on the way out?”
“I’ll just have to brazen it out,” I shrugged. “Say I had a bit of an accident and hope they understand.”
“Do you think they will?”
“It could happen to anyone,” I said, taking her by the arm and leading her towards the stairwell. “I mean, take yourself, for instance. Have you ever wet your knickers as an adult?”
“Oh yes,” she giggled. “Twice.”
She bent down to rescue the unopened bottle of champagne. Half way down she paused, stiffened, and looked up at me with a strange mixture of shock, surprise, lust and mischief registering in her eyes.
“You’d better make that three times,” she corrected.
By: Indigo